


Bloom

by obbets



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Angst, F/F, F/M, Hanahaki Disease, M/M, Pre-Canon, are you looking for feels because this is where the feels are, flower petal disease, sadsra
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-28 02:30:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17174165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obbets/pseuds/obbets
Summary: Asra is in love with the magician that took him in and taught him magic. Every time he thinks of them, he coughs up a flower petal. As far as curses go, it's not the worst.





	Bloom

Asra used to cough into his hands when he saw his love. He would cough when he thought of them, cough when he saw them, cough when he heard them laugh or saw them smile. His heart would do a little extra thump-thump, and his mouth would produce a delicate petal in his hands.

He used to hide them. He would crush them in his fist and drop them behind him discreetly, or fill his pockets with them, or convince the wind to carry them away from him. Being away from his love didn’t stop the petals, and had the added disadvantage of meaning that he couldn’t see them, so he never stayed away for long.

Sometimes they would laugh, joyful and wild, and the petal would be a bright yellow, a hopeful smile, a promise for tomorrow. Some days they would argue and he would dwell, thoughts dragging him on a dark spiral to the bottom of a bottle, and the petals would be a deep, brooding purple. Some days the two of them would go to the market and get hot bread straight from the oven, break it and laugh by the fountains together. Those days, the petal would be a blushing pink, warm and happy. Most often, however, it was an ardent red. Strong. Unwavering.

He could have done without the petals, but as far as curses go, it wasn’t so bad. And if falling out of love was the only way to be free of them, the petals would stay. Love is offered freely, with no obligation or strings attached. Love does not need to be returned, he would tell himself.

Still, on his darkest purple days, he might admit to himself that it would be nice. The petals would fall to the ground around his chair on those days, when he felt too broken down to catch them and hide them as he should. No one ever questioned the flower petals surrounding the magician.

Yet, day by wonderful day, he got closer to the magician who let him work in their shop and spend time in their effervescent presence. Their aura was beautiful- everything about them was beautiful. They welcomed him in and they let him stay near them, exactly where he wanted to be.

And there were yellow days when the magician would touch him with familiarity and warmth, and he would think _that touch lingered_ or _they do not smile at their other friends like this_ or _they let me **stay** with them, surely that means something_. And the petals would be yellow, and he would hope for things to change, for that touch to linger, for their eyes to hold more than warmth, for any indication that they burned for him like he did for them.

And things did change.

A red swarm over the city. The vengeful count, throwing parties and celebrations in a desperate bid to ignore the disease. Once-familiar faces, eyes now crimson and bloodied, herded onto carts and taken away.

_We must leave_ he had said. _It is not safe here and we must **go**_. The city was burning, and he did not wish to join the flames. But his love, oh, they knew their magic could help ease the suffering, and their open heart would not allow him to pull them both away, to safety. (And he coughed and coughed and the purple petals flowed from his mouth like bitter wine.)

One day he caught his reflection strangely in a mirror. The setting sun cast a glow over everything, tinting the light, in a way that he might have called beautiful had he seen it at any other time, at any other place. The scarf he wore wrapped around his face, revealing only his eyes, was a warm red, and, for a heart stopping second, he saw crimson in his own eyes. 

Eventually, the panic subsided enough for him to realise that it was just a trick of the light. The image stayed in his mind regardless. 

_*_

The bell above the shop’s door tinkled, and he looked up from where he had been lying on the cushions and blankets on the floor, leafing idly through a book. His mouth opened on a casual greeting, which fell from his lips half-unsaid as he saw the state his love was in. He choked down a blue petal (worry, upset) and scrambled to bolster them as they half-stumbled, half-fell through the open doorway. 

Their skin was ashen and sallow. Their cheekbones were too pronounced, their bones too stark. The sight struck a cold chime of fear and dread into his heart that even the warm expression that they greeted him with could not begin to soothe. 

He helped them take a seat and rushed to heat some soup for them, hovering anxiously, twisting his hands to keep from reaching out. 

Eventually, his love spoke. “That was a long day.” Their voice cracked, and the smile they attempted did nothing but emphasise how their every muscle seemed to droop. 

“You’re over extending yourself. You can’t keep going like this - you’re running yourself ragged.” He reached out to comb his fingers through their hair, coaxing it away from their tired eyes. “Magic is not meant to be used in such a way. _You_ taught me that.” 

They closed their eyes, as if it was too much effort to hold them open any longer. 

He reached down and took their hands in his, turning them over and pressing his thumbs to their wrists, where the blood runs close to the skin. He thought about something they had done with him before; channelling magic through him to show him the shape of a spell. Perhaps he could accomplish something similar? 

He smothered a cough in his shoulder, a petal falling to the ground unheeded, kneeled before them, and tapped into his own reserves of magic, pulling it up and pouring it through his fingers. 

“Asra…” They are trying to chide him, but he can see the gratitude and relief in their eyes. 

It was wasteful, and risky, but it was worth it to see some of the pallor fade away, for the sparkle in his love’s eyes to brighten slightly. They had depleted their magic to the point where it had even begun to sap at their bodily strength. 

“You can’t continue on this way. It’s time. We must leave.” _Please,_ he begged silently, fingers still stroking at their wrists. 

They shifted back, mouth drawing thin and shoulders squaring for a familiar confrontation. “I _cannot_ leave the city like this. I can help. I am sure of it. I _will_ find a way to end the disease.” 

“But you are putting too much of yourself into this search. You are draining your own life force!” He _needed_ them to understand. They were too special, too _important_ to risk their life like this. 

“I am working towards a breakthrough. I can feel it, I’m on the cusp of something. I can almost _taste_ it. And every second I waste, people _die_. Can you understand that?” 

“You will be no use to the living if you join the ranks of the dead!” 

“And how much use will I be if I do as you say, hmm? Flee the city? Leave this place behind? Pretend to be happy while I know that our friends and neighbours are burning, and I could have helped?” 

It’s an argument they had been through many times, yet this time felt different. He had never heard them speak in such a cold tone. He clutched at the fabric over his heart, trying to keep his voice from wavering. “You would be _alive._ ” 

They stood. They were only inches away from him, but he had never felt so distant. He sat back on his heels, looking up and searching their face for some sign, some hidden warmth, any indication that he might be getting through to them, any chance that they could be convinced. 

_I just want you to be safe,_ his heart chanted with every beat. _I can’t watch you destroy yourself, throwing yourself up against this unbeatable force again and again, coming home slightly smaller each day. What would I do without you?_

_I love you,_ he wanted to say. 

_I don’t want to die._

The words tripped over each other, clogging up in his throat until he could say nothing at all. 

“Asra,” their voice came. It was less harsh than it had been, but it was not gentle by any stretch of the word. “I will not stop you if you wish to leave. Just know that I will not be coming with you.” 

He bowed his head and covered his eyes, trying to press the tears back from whence they came. “I have made my decision, Asra.” There was a light touch at his hair, stroking gently through the strands, and his love’s voice was kind now. “You must make your own.” 

_*_

He still coughs into his hands when he thinks of his love. Occasionally he catches an accidental glimpse of dark purple or deep blue through his fingers, but he tries not to look and he drops them behind him. 

He throws himself into magic and adventure, trying to pretend that he doesn’t wish he could turn to the side and grab his love’s hand, that he could point out the stars and that they could name the constellations, that he could drink tea without thinking about how they brewed it better. 

He reaches a desert far from Vesuvia, and starts teaching himself to make water from sand. It distracts him for a while, at least. 

He keeps apart from the locals as much as he can, but they ask for help and magic and attention and can’t they see that he misses his love and he wants them _with_ him? Can’t they comprehend it? 

The petals taste like ash on his tongue and they bleed a dull red. 

Had they always been that colour? 

_*_

It is hard to know how long he has been away from his love. An hour away from them feels like a week, and time is distorted in the desert anyway. For the thousandth time, he gets out a leaf of paper. 

Maybe if he writes to them, they will come. Maybe they would join him if only they knew where he was. Maybe they miss him as much as he misses them. Maybe they need him. Maybe, maybe, maybe. 

For the thousandth time, the blank paper gets put away again. 

_*_

One day, he is at his would-be well, reaching into the sand, and _willing_ it to be water. It ripples, but remains gritty. He pushes harder, face scrunching up, and _focuses,_ and- 

There is water. It pours through his fingers, and he laughs delightedly. He sips at it, and it is the sweetest thing he has ever tasted. He turns, mouth opening on a _‘Look, I managed-'_ before he remembers. His love isn’t there. 

He coughs reflexively at the thought, but it feels wrong. It takes him a moment to realise, but he doesn’t see a petal anywhere, he didn’t taste one on his tongue. The water pours through his fingers, forgotten. 

He stands, and starts to run. 

_*_

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoy the sads.
> 
> feel free to check out my tumblr: https://the-lazaret.tumblr.com/


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